Rubber Band Man
by Meercat
Summary: A new guard transferred into Stalag 13 causes major trouble for the heroes. Sequel to "A Spot of Trouble," but can stand on its own. Chapter 4 up-the new Captain arrives. All I can say is-Ouch!
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Rubber Band Man

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, drama, angst, h/c

SERIES: Story 2, Breaking Point Trilogy (sequel to "A Spot of Trouble")

SUMMARY: A new guard transferred into Stalag 13 causes major trouble for the heroes. Sequel to "A Spot of Trouble," but can stand on its own. Begins one month later.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #1: The story title has nothing whatsoever to do with the song of the same name.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #2: Much as I did with "A Spot of Trouble," I couldn't decide between ratings of PG-13 or R. As of right now, I have settled on the lesser rating. While I plan some very intense scenes, they are not as harsh as some in my previous story. The rating may go up in future, depending on which way the story spins.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #3: Hochstetter fans—sorry, he's not in this one. But don't worry. He'll be back in story #3, tentatively titled "Endurance."

AUTHOR'S NOTE #4: Unlike "Spot," which was pretty much finished by the time I started posting, this story is very much a WIP. The speed of my posting will depend heavily on the pressures of Real Life on both myself and my wonderful beta-reader (Hi, Marty B!). Please be patient.

AUTHOR'S THANKS: to ML Miller Breedlove for her magnificent beta-reading and her fantastic wealth of medical knowledge. And to Patti and Marg for putting me on the right path.

Chapter 1

"Come on, Colonel, have a heart. It's been _three weeks_!"

"The doc says three more days, Carter, and then only a few minutes at a time." Colonel Robert E. Hogan folded his arms across his chest and waited. "The face" appeared, right on cue. "The damp-eyed look won't work. Or the somebody-kicked-a-puppy chin quiver. And no, the starving, orphaned waif won't cut it, either. You might as well give up, Sergeant. You're not leaving that bed for another three days." When Carter opened his mouth to continue, Hogan brandished a stiff index finger in front of the young man's nose and added, "And if you say one more word about it, I'll make sure it's a full _week_!"

"_Hmmmmmfph._"

With a sullen pout, Carter flopped against the pillows that elevated his upper body, only to wince and shift back onto his right flank to ease the pressure against his tender, whip-scarred back. He'd spent the majority of his confinement either leaning toward or directly on his right side. A month prior, during a vicious interrogation by a Gestapo Captain, Carter's captor nicked his intestine with a rusty pitchfork tine. As a result, he endured six hours of emergency surgery, six days in a fever-wracked coma, and an extremely sore left side.

"You went through a lot back then," Hogan said. "Beatings, whippings, broken bones, and ... you're not going to be able to jump back quickly after all of that."

"I know that, sir," Carter answered, a ripple of bitterness beneath the respect, along with a trace of fear, "maybe better than anyone else, including the doctor. I lived it, remember?"

"Yes. I remember." Hogan nodded. A haunted shadow passed over his face; his chocolate brown eyes turned black. Aged lines appeared across his brow, between his eyes, and around the corners of his mouth. "I remember finding you in that barn—your body pierced, battered, and broken—ready to suicide rather than betray our operation."

Carter squirmed. The metal bedsprings squeaked.

"I ... don't remember that part."

"I will, for the rest of my days." Hogan placed a heavy hand on Carter's shoulder close to his neck, thumb pressed against the reassuring beat of the young man's carotid artery. He squeezed the shoulder to bring home his point. "We came closer to losing you that day than we have with any other operative on any of our missions. That's not something any of us can forget in a hurry. I'm not about to take any chances. We need you, Andrew Carter, but we need you whole and hearty. If you push yourself too soon, it'll put back your progress. It'll end up taking longer, and that's not something we can afford right now."

Carter picked at a snag in the thin blanket over his bandaged chest and abdomen with his thumb and second finger—the only unsplinted digits on his right hand. The tiny defect rapidly unraveled into a much larger hole.

"I suppose I can understand what you mean, when you put it that way. It's just ... Colonel, I'm bored out of my skull!"

_I suppose,_ Hogan thought, _if I'd been cooped up in the same room in the same bed for three weeks—four if you add 6 days in a fevered coma—being bathed with water out of a basin instead of a showerhead, not even allowed to sit up in a chair for more than five minutes at a time while someone changes the sheets, and with only my nightmares for company at night, I'd have a few bats in my belfry, too._

_Aw, hell. Now he's wearing the same face he wore the night we told him they foreclosed on "Mary Noble, Backstage Wife" I suppose I'm not immune to every version of "the face" after all._

"I'll tell you what," Hogan bargained. "When the doctor comes back this afternoon, we'll ask him if you can sit outside for, say, thirty minutes. Just long enough to see what's going on in the yard, maybe wave hello to a few of the boys. I doubt you'll be up to a longer time than that."

A bright smile erased many of the lines and shadows on Carter's face. "Gee, thanks, Colonel. After three weeks in here, thirty minutes outside sounds like heaven. At least it'll get me onto my butt and off my right hip. Lying on the same place for a month _hurts_, you know!"

-HH-

"Doc, am I glad to see you!"

Hogan grinned at Dr. Freiling's sudden, startled stop directly in the doorway. _I imagine he's been greeted with various emotions by every patient he's ever treated. I seriously doubt any of them were ever as wildly exuberant as this one._

"You are? Tell me, Colonel Hogan, should I be worried? Would it be better if I came back later?"

Hogan shrugged. "I doubt it'll make much difference. He'll be just as glad to see you later this afternoon. Maybe even more so."

"Ahhh."

The doctor, his square body speaking of rich foods in constant battle with an active lifestyle, stepped the rest of the way inside and closed the door. He set his black bag down on a small side table, removed his winter coat, and hung it on a wall peg. Comfortable in a white cotton shirt and brown waistcoat, he rolled up his sleeves, moved to the foot of the bed, and smiled down on his patient.

"May I ask why you are so happy to see me?"

"The Colonel said if it's okay with you, maybe I can sit outside for a few minutes, get some air and wave hello to the fellas. Please, Doc. Please. Please."

Hogan added the caveat, "Only if you think he's up to it, Doc."

"Hmmmmmm." The doctor pursed his lips as though considering the matter in depth. Carter wiggled with anxiety, doing his very best to project health and vitality. Dr. Freiling moved over to a side table where he applied rubbing alcohol to both hands. "Colonel, if you would leave us, please. I will examine my patient. I will have an answer afterwards. I promise nothing, mind you."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Hogan gave Carter a thumbs-up for good luck and left the infirmary. In the yard, door closed behind him, Colonel Robert E. Hogan, senior POW officer of Luft Stalag 13 and the resistance leader known as "Papa Bear," drew in a deep breath of the crisp winter air. A rare, strong sun stood high overhead, pouring a faint golden light and a hint of warmth against his face.

_It should be warm enough for a few minutes, but he'll need to dress for it. Clothes. Blankets._

He looked across the yard to Barracks Two. The remaining three key members of the underground organization lounged outside their home, taking advantage of the unusually warm winter day. A "come here" motion of his head brought the men running. Sergeant Ivan Kinchloe, his tall, black, quiet second-in-command, moved up first, closely followed by their British pickpocket, Corporal Peter Newkirk, and the hyper little French chef in his jaunty little red beret, Corporal Louis LeBeau.

"What's up, Colonel?" Kinch asked.

"We saw the doctor arrive," LeBeau added. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing. In fact, things may be very right for the first time since the night Carter blew up the depot. There's a chance the doc may let him sit outside for a few minutes."

"_Se magnifique_!" LeBeau clapped his hands in delight.

"This _is_ good news, guv'na." Newkirk grinned. "I imagine the little guy's about ready to eat his blankets."

"Pull them apart thread by thread, actually," Hogan said. He jerked his head toward the infirmary door. "The doc's giving him a lookover now to decide if he's ready. Just in case, we have a few things to do. Kinch, he'll need something to sit on. Get the chair from my office. Bring a few pillows, too. Newkirk, he'll need his jacket and cap, a pair of pants, and some blankets to wrap up in. And don't forget his boots. LeBeau, a hot cup of something for him to drink—soup, coffee, whatever's on the stove."

Three acknowledgements floated back as the men hurried off to carry out their errands. By the time Dr. Freiling called Colonel Hogan back into the room, all the preparations were complete. Hogan stood at the foot of the bed, each hand gripping the opposite elbow, and waited to hear the doctor's decision. Poor Carter looked about ready to fret himself into a relapse.

"Well, Dr. Freiling? What's the verdict?"

"If he sits in a real chair, padded, with a back to it, not some unstable bench." Carter nodded briskly to every point made by the physician. "And if he is dressed appropriately and wrapped in a blanket. And if someone stays at his side without fail. And if it lasts no longer than 30 minutes."

"All that's doable, Doc. Thanks ever so much. I'm about ready to punch a hole in the wall just to see what sunlight looks like again. Someone really should add some windows in here. Hey, Colonel, maybe you could suggest that to the Kommandant. It's a great idea, don't you think?"

In the process of helping his patient turn to sit on the side of the bed, stocking-covered feet dangling to the wooden floor, Dr. Freiling turned to Hogan and asked, "Is he always like this?"

"No, actually, most of the time he's worse."

"_Mein Gott_."

"We've said that a time or ten ourselves," Hogan admitted, "along with other, slightly more secular adjectives. As for your conditions, we have everything ready outside. I just have to bring someone in with his clothes and boots."

At Hogan's call, Peter Newkirk bounced into the room with a cheery "'ello there, Andrew-me-lad," his arms loaded with items of clothing. The boots hung over one shoulder, tied together by their laces.

With several fingers of each hand still in braces, Carter could do nothing to help dress himself. He blushed a rosy red as Newkirk and Hogan helped him into his trousers. Sliding the material underneath his hips proved to be something of a challenge and closing the fly a definite humiliation.

"I would advise against wearing the belt," the doctor cautioned as Newkirk threaded the leather through the first belt loop. "The pressure against the surgical site might be very painful."

"You heard the man, Andrew," Newkirk said as he tossed the leather strap over the bed's metal headboard. "No belt."

"If my pants fall down, will you catch 'em?"

"I love you like a brother, mate," Newkirk said, "but not _that_ much. You show your shinies to the camp, you're on your own."

"Gee, thanks a lot."

Newkirk then slipped clean socks and boots on each foot and Hogan maneuvered both of Carter's arms into the coat sleeves. Carter's ears were particularly hot, the color of ripe apples. Despite his mortification, he didn't object when Hogan closed up the jacket and set his cap firmly on his head, flaps down to keep his ears warm. It was a sign to Hogan—Carter must be mighty anxious to get outside.

"There. All ready. Can you stand?"

Carter queried his body before answering, moving arms and legs as well as he could while seated on the side of the bed. "I—I think so. I may need some help, though."

"You got it. Just take your time." Seeing the cloud of uncertainty on Carter's face, Hogan added, "Don't worry. I won't let you fall."

Andrew Carter looked at Hogan, absolute trust in his eyes. The expression cut straight through to Hogan's otherwise carefully guarded heart.

"I know you won't, sir."

Between Hogan and Newkirk, Carter soon stood upright, even though helping hands were needed to keep him that way. With their assistance, he soon took his initial steps toward the door. The first few were tentative, as though he didn't quite trust his body to do what he asked of it. With each successful pace forward, the aches and stiffness faded and his confidence grew. By the time they reached the door, a broad smile brightened his face, despite the sheen of sweat on his brow.

As the door opened, Carter blinked against the increased light. By the time his eyes adjusted, he was outside, with all of his closest friends there for him.

"Hey, Carter," Kinch smiled. "We have a seat all ready for you."

"_André_, it is so good to see you outside!"

"Hi, Kinch, Louie. It's—whoa, ow—good to be outside."

Hogan steered him toward the pillow-padded chair. "Let's get you sat down, shall we?" 

Hogan helped the injured man settle into the seat before draping a blanket around his shoulders. LeBeau tucked another one in on each side of his lap. Carter closed his eyes and tilted his head back, comfortable and content.

"Warm," he whispered. "Nice."

"Yes, it is."

Hearing someone call his name, Carter opened his eyes. Across the yard, near Barracks Three, one of the other prisoners waved a wild greeting.

"Hey, fellas, look who's up an' movin' again!"

Carter freed one hand from inside the blanket to return the wave. "Hi, Mike."

Another soldier called, "Hey, Andy! Good to see you!"

"Welcome back!" said a third.

Dozens of surprised and positive greetings did more to raise Carter's spirits than the touch of sun's warmth against his skin. Hogan, standing at Carter's side, smiled. A rare feeling of calm settled over him—a fragment of peace between bouts of terror and danger. The greetings weren't so surprising; despite Hogan's attempts to contain the details, word of Carter's torture at the hands of the Gestapo had made its way into the camp's gossip mill. Everyone knew what he'd endured to protect them and their secret organization.

Such an act of heroism would not be forgotten.

"Here, _André_," LeBeau held out a cloth-padded cup. Steam rose over the rim. "A little something to warm you up. Chicken soup, just as you like it."

"Thanks, Louie." Carter accepted the cup somewhat awkwardly, trying to secure his hold despite the straight splints on several fingers. He took a loud, slurping sip. "Mmmm, delicious."

As Carter finished the last of the thick broth and handed the empty cup back to LeBeau, Sergeant of the Guard, Sergeant Major Hans Schultz, came around the corner of the delousing station. Seeing them, he waddled over, a broad smile on his round face.

"Ahhh, Carter," the big German smiled in honest delight, "you are sitting up again. _Ser gut_!"

"Sure am, Shultzie! It's only for a few minutes. But then, I doubt I can handle more than that. Still, it's a step—or a seat—in the right direction. Isn't it great?"

"Yes, it is. You had us so worried." Schultz wagged a fatherly finger at the seated man. "Do not do that to us again."

"I'll try not to, Schultz."

A loud pop brought everyone's attention beyond the front gate. A familiar panel truck, the weekly delivery of bakery goods from town, jerked to the right, its front right tire blown completely off the rim. Ribbons of smoking rubber arched in all directions.

"Uh-oh," Carter said, "looks like he's gonna lose it."

The vehicle veered left and right as the driver fought to regain control. With a squeal of locked breaks, the truck slammed into the front right leg of the guard tower. The wood shattered, spraying wood, nails, bolts, and brackets in every direction. Its support undermined, the guard tower popped, creaked, and groaned, swayed like a drunken dancer and toppled. The guard on duty, desperate, leaped from the crows nest. The driver of the truck threw himself away but didn't quite make it. The vehicle vanished under the debris.

Men shouted, some in surprise and fear, others in pain.

Camp personnel popped out of buildings and around corners. Soldiers, civilians, and prisoners alike stared, mouths agape, at the destruction. A spark, most likely from a firepot Hogan knew the guards had smuggled into the crows nest to combat the cold—most definitely against regulations—ignited the spilled gasoline. Within seconds, the van, the tower, the guard shack, and a large section of the front fence were in full flame. The stink of burning wood, overheated metal, spilled gasoline, and charred breads carried over the entire camp, borne on a fog of smoke.

The door to the camp Kommandant's office opened. Colonel Wilhelm Klink, the Kommandant of Stalag 13, stepped out to ogle the chaos even as Dr. Freiling, black bag in hand, hurried past Hogan on his way to help the wounded.

In the midst of the chaos, Schultz bellowed orders, only to have Klink either repeat or countermand each and every one. A water brigade formed, in many places alternating guard and prisoner. Each line carried buckets of water from various rain barrels placed next to every building in camp to within tossing distance of the raging fire.

From what Hogan and his men could see, at least seven guards were wounded, though none appeared dead, at least from his current prospective. The condition of the driver, however, was still unknown.

A shot rang out then another and another. The inferno had ignited the ordnance stored inside the tower for use in the mounted machine gun. The bucket lines broke as every man scrambled to escape a stray bullet.

Kommandant Klink's voice carried over everything else. _"Schultz, get all of the prisoners back to their barracks. I don't **care** if they're helping with the fire! Make sure none of them try to escape in the confusion. Take a roll call every half-hour until we get this mess cleaned up and the fence rebuilt. Handlers, get those dogs out of their kennels—move them away from the fire! Reform the bucket lines! Keep the water coming!"_

"Well, Andrew," Hogan sighed, "looks like your little excursion's going to be cut short."

"That's okay. Boy, Colonel," Carter eyed the chaos, his eyebrows lost under the brim of his fur-lined cap, "you sure know how to put on some prime entertainment."

Hogan shrugged. A smile tugged at his lips and lit his eyes.

"We aim to please."

_ A nod to the first season episode, "The 43rd, a Moving Story"_


	2. Chapter 2

TITLE: Rubber Band Man

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, drama, angst, h/c

SERIES: Story 2, Breaking Point Trilogy (sequel to "A Spot of Trouble")

SUMMARY: A new guard transferred into Stalag 13 causes major trouble for the heroes. Sequel to "A Spot of Trouble," but can stand on its own. Begins one month later.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #1: The story title has nothing whatsoever to do with the song of the same name.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #2: Unlike "Spot," which was pretty much finished by the time I started posting, this story is very much a WIP. The speed of my posting will depend heavily on the pressures of Real Life on both myself and my wonderful beta-reader (Hi, Marty B!). Please be patient.

AUTHOR'S THANKS: to ML Miller Breedlove for her magnificent beta-reading and her fantastic wealth of medical knowledge. And to Patti and Marg for putting me on the right path.

Chapter 2

At slightly past 1600 hours the next afternoon, Kommandant Wilhelm Klink stepped off the bottom step and out into the yard, swagger stick firmly clenched between his left elbow and his side, a nervous grin plastered on his face. Before him, a staff car pulled to a dust-churning stop, its black paint obscured beneath a splattering of road dust, grit, and mud. The metallic scent of a hot engine momentarily overpowered the stench of burned wood and fuel that stubbornly clung to the camp.

The driver hopped out and opened the rear door. A single, scar-faced man in a light gray coat and glass-polished boots stepped out.

"General Burkhalter. How wonderful to see you again. A pleasure and an honor, sir."

The fat General slapped his gloves across the palm of his hand. Beady eyes buried inside a thickened face studied the vigorous repair activity in the vicinity of the main gate. With the help of day laborers from the village of Hammelburg, Klink's men had replaced the gate and fence. The guard shack and watchtower were partially constructed. Everything was raw wood and bare metal—nothing had yet been painted.

Turning back, Burkhalter glowered his undisguised loathing at the Kommandant.

"The feeling is not mutual, Klink. I am cold, tired, and hungry. Let us carry this conversation inside, shall we?"

"Certainly, _Herr_ General. This way."

In the office, Klink's attempts to exchange pleasantries fell disastrously flat, though the General did not turn down a glass of French brandy. Glass in hand, he stood beside the open door of the potbellied stove to warm himself.

"I see repairs are coming along nicely." Burkhalter made small talk between sips of his drink. "I also noted a definite scarcity of prisoners in the yard. Odd for this time of day, wouldn't you agree?"

"I have them confined to their barracks until the repairs are complete."

"A wise precaution, Klink. I'm surprised you thought of it yourself."

"Well, General," Klink offered a sickly smile and did his best to ignore the insult, "it ... it seemed the logical thing to do. Can't have prisoners just stepping through a gaping hole in the perimeter fence, can we?"

His drink complete and the worst of his chill abated, General Burkhalter pulled a single envelope from an inside coat pocket and slammed it down on top of Klink's desk blotter. His delivery complete, the General threw himself into the nearest padded seat. The expression on his piggish face was unmistakably one of disgust, though whether with Klink or the matter at hand, the Kommandant could not say.

"Read that," Burkhalter said. "Then we will talk."

The tone told Klink all he needed to know. He pulled a letter opener from the top right hand drawer, slit open the envelope, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. Klink stared at the official list, complete with seal and signatures, and back at his superior officer. For once, his puzzlement was quite understandable.

"General Burkhalter, I—I don't understand. You are a busy man with many responsibilities, a member of the Fuhrer's General Staff. Why would you drive for hours to bring me something so ordinary as a list of guard transfers? The daily courier could have delivered it just as easily."

"Look at the last name on the list. That should explain everything."

"_Hauphman _Rubert Schätzle." Klink tapped the paper against his chin. "Schätzle ... Schätzle. That name sounds fam—" The penny dropped, followed by Klink's jaw. His voice fell to an overawed whisper. "Ohhh, _Schätzle_. As in _Field Marshall Schätzle_?"

"The very same," Burkhalter nodded. "Rupert is the son of Field Marshall Herman Schätzle, the third of his six boys. There are also four girls as I recall."

"Ten children—my goodness!" Klink gave a nervous titter. "How has he had time to rise through the ranks while creating his small tribe?"

Burkhalter glowered at his subordinate and yelled, "That is none of your business, Klink!"

Klink sank back into his seat, deflated. "Not my business, I understand completely, _Herr_ General. Please accept my apologies. The remark was crass and uncivilized and quite uncalled-for."

"As is your long-winded apology, Klink. I have time for neither. I am here because Captain Schätzle is in need of rest. He is ... shall we say ... recovering from intensive exposure to harsh and terrible battle conditions."

"He was wounded?"

"In a manner of speaking." Burkhalter's voice took on a rare hesitancy, as though he weren't quite sure which words were appropriate—or safe—to use. "Not a physical wound, precisely, but something that needs attention nevertheless. Field Marshall Schätzle has requested a quiet, untroubled posting for his son, a place where he can recover without the ... distractions ... of an active military post. Thus, he is here. He will not be your Executive Officer, _exactly_, nor will he be an ordinary guard. Rather, he will be something in-between the two. He will assist you as needed and assume command of your guard contingent, answerable to you, until such time as his ... situation and condition improves. He is not to be overworked or burdened with more than he agrees to handle, Klink. Is that clear?"

Klink struggled to find the most diplomatic way to object to the posting. "General Burkhalter, I—I understand the Field Marshall's concerns. And I wish his son a speedy and complete recovery. However, this is a prison camp with over 1,000 desperate enemy prisoners. Escape attempts are fairly regular, though we both know they will never be successful. Is it wise to place someone in charge of the entire guard contingent who is ... well ... I mean ... having difficulties?"

"You have no choice in this matter, Klink. Any more than _I_ do."

"You, sir?"

"Believe it or not, I have similar reservations about the advisability of this posting, nor am I the only member of the General Staff to express such a concern—quietly, of course." Burkhalter's sour expression mirrored the acerbic tone of his voice. "However, Field Marshall Schätzle has extensive influence in the highest circles of our government. Even more importantly, he has Adolf Hitler's _personal favor_."

"Ahhhhh."

"Let me put it another way, Klink. If this order came from any higher up, it would come from Heaven itself. For better or worse, _Hauphman _Schätzle is now under your command."

-HH-

In the senior POW's quarters inside of Barracks Two, Robert Hogan, Ivan Kinchloe, and Louis LeBeau listened to the entire conversation via the microphone hidden within a photo mounted on Klink's office wall. The speaker, hidden in the lid of Hogan's coffee pot, rested on the table in front of them, revealing the German officers' every word.

"Well," Kinch said from his place seated in the room's only chair, "this should prove interesting."

"Son of a Field Marshall," Hogan mused, arms folded over his chest, his eyes half-closed in deep thought. "There may be some way we can turn that to our advantage."

"How, _mon Colonél_?"

"I don't know yet," Hogan admitted as he pushed his shoulders off the frame of his bunk and stood straight, "but I'll think of something. He may be a source of information. Or a bargaining chip. Or he may be completely useless to us. Whatever we decide to do, one thing is certain. We'll have to be on our toes until we find out more about this Captain."

"_Oui_," LeBeau nodded, "he is going to be Schultz's direct superior officer. We do not know how the big tub of lard will react to any 'monkey business' with someone besides Kommandant Klink looking over his shoulder."

"Even worse," Hogan continued, "this Captain Schätzle will have some of the powers normally relegated to the Executive Officer and the camp Kommandant. He'll have authority to change the watch schedules, call for unscheduled headcounts, inspect all the barracks, inflict punishments, and alter the rotation. He could put a different guard on our barracks, one we can't bribe with food or cigarettes, who doesn't have our good Sergeant's 'know nothing, see nothing' philosophy. The entire camp dynamic could change for the worse."

"_Mon Dieu_," LeBeau whispered. "When did our life suddenly get so complicated? Not to mention dangerous?"

"When Klink accepted that letter from Burkhalter," Hogan answered. The Colonel slapped both men on the shoulder. "Both of you, down into the tunnel. Kinch, get on the radio to London. Let them know what's going on. Tell them we're closing up shop until we have a clearer picture of the situation. LeBeau, go to every barracks and tell them to lay low. Until further notice, we're going to be plain, ordinary POWs."

"Right away, _mon Colonél_," LeBeau said. As the little Frenchman turned to leave, he paused and turned back long enough to ask, "Sir? Where is Newkirk?"

"In the infirmary, helping Carter. He's on valet detail this afternoon."

-HH-

"Uhhhh, Peter? My face is cold, and the soap's running down my neck."

"Oh! Sorry, mate." Newkirk—a long razor in one hand, a towel in the other—closed the infirmary door and hurried back to Carter's bedside. "Didn't mean to leave you 'alf-done 'ere."

"What's so interesting outside?"

"I heard a car pull in," Peter said as he ran the straight razor over the stubble on Carter's jaw. "The Fat General 'imself's decided to pay us a visit. He's gone into Klink's office for a wee chat."

"That can't be good," Carter reckoned when Newkirk paused to clean the blade. "I hope the Colonel's listening in to whatever they're talking about."

"You can bet your sweet britches they are, Andrew-me-lad. Now 'old still an' let me finish up here before you turn into a prune. An' no talkin', else I might end up slittin' your throat accidental-like."

Newkirk completed the shave then cleaned and put away the equipment. With all trace of soap and water removed, he helped Carter slip into a loose-fitting, slit-sided nightshirt, custom-made by LeBeau with small strings to tie the side seams closed, giving Carter's caregivers easy access to his bandages. Though Carter felt renewed, his fresh appearance was at odds with his melancholy expression. As Newkirk settled the blankets and tucked them in, Carter studied his splinted hands and heaved a pitiful sigh.

"I'll be so glad when I can do things for myself again," he sighed. "Dressing and shaving in particular."

"What, you don't like 'avin' us waitin' on you 'and an' foot?"

Carter shook his head. "Not particularly, no. It feels too weird."

"Me, I'd be layin' back and soakin' up every second of it."

In a voice almost too soft to hear, Carter said, "Trade you."

With atypical seriousness, Newkirk sat on the side of the bed, rested his hand on Carter's forearm, and replied, "I'd take you up on that if I could, Andrew. 'onest I would."

Carter smiled. "I know that. But I wouldn't let you ... even if you could."

"I know that, too." Newkirk rose, took up the washbasin of dirty water, and headed for the door. "Hence the personal service of a true gentleman's gentleman."

"Peter?"

"Yeah, Carter?"

"Would you fluff my pillows for me? They're lumpy."

For a long moment, it looked like Newkirk would toss the waterover the bed's occupant rather than out into the yard.

_Growl_. "Carter—"

"Kidding, Peter. Just kidding. Geez, some people have no sense of humor!"


	3. Chapter 3

TITLE: Rubber Band Man

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, drama, angst, h/c

SERIES: Story 2, Breaking Point Trilogy (sequel to "A Spot of Trouble")

SUMMARY: A new guard transferred into Stalag 13 causes major trouble for the heroes. Sequel to "A Spot of Trouble" but can stand on its own. Chapter 2 up-reactions.

AUTHOR'S THANKS: to ML Miller Breedlove for her magnificent beta-reading and her fantastic wealth of medical knowledge. And to Patti and Marg for putting me on the right path.

Chapter 3

Nights were the hardest.

Andrew Carter smiled and waved as Newkirk, escorted by Schultz, headed out the door into the dark prison yard, bound for his bunk in Barracks Two. Before the Englander's cheery promise to return after the next morning's roll call stopped echoing off the infirmary's unadorned walls, Carter's smile had vanished. In its place was a sallow, panting tension that would last until dawn's light and the arrival of his first visitor.

Nights brought night_mares_—horrendous memories, sometimes real, other times grotesque distortions of true events. Nights brought _sounds_—the click and pop of the wooden walls as they reacted to changes in temperature and pressure became the chambering of rifles ready to fire. The eerie footfalls and, sometimes, voices of camp guards on their rounds were his tormenters coming back for another round. Worst of all were the soft moans, each one a shapeless specter that tormented him until Carter forcefully reminded himself that _he_ had made the sounds, not some ghost hiding under his sickbed.

The torture happened at night. Nights would always mean pain.

"I'm a big boy now," Carter whispered to himself. "I don't need a babysitter. I can spend another night by myself. I can do this. I can."

Why didn't he believe that? With splinted fingers, he awkwardly pulled the blankets closer to his neck and huddled beneath them. The light from the single table lamp did little to dispel the gloom and seemed, in fact, to increase the numbers of shadows that floated around the room. He'd tried to sleep without the light, only to be rapidly smothered by the utter blackness of the windowless room. The one night he'd tried to do without the light, he had not slept a single wink.

It hadn't been so bad in the beginning. For the first week after waking from his coma, he'd always had someone there with him, either sitting in the chair or resting on the next bed over. Sometimes it was Louie with a warm cup of soup and a funny story, or Peter with shadow puppet theaters on the wall or amusing magic tricks, or Kinch with his strong presence and an update on the camp's activities, both above and below ground. Sometimes it was the Colonel himself. His presence alone chased away the night frights. Whoever stayed with him, Carter only had to open his eyes to find his support.

His health gradually improved to the point where he no longer needed around-the-clock care. Kommandant Klink had ordered Hogan to resume proper sleeping arrangements in Barracks Two. The nighttime vigils ended.

That first night alone ... Carter moaned and burrowed into his pillow.

"It'll be better once I'm back in the barracks. The Colonel promised. It'll be soon. Real soon. It's just ... lonely here. That's all it is. I'm used to having the guys around me. For years I've listened to Newkirk snore directly over my head, or LeBeau muttering French love-words in his sleep—or they might be recipes, I'm not sure. Every now and again I'd wake up when Kinch raised his bunk to enter or exit the underground tunnels. I miss the action, the night missions, even the ones where all I do is wait for the other guys to get back safe and sound. I'm nervous because it's just so ... lonely ... in here."

Carter stared steadfastly at the light, unwilling to look away for fear of the shadows, both real and imaginary. Aching and sore from a dozen healing wounds to both bone and flesh, he shivered beneath the blankets.

"I'm just ... so ... alone."

* * *

The occupants of Stalag 13's Barracks Two grumbled and groused their way through morning roll call. In typical fashion, the fifteen men—rather, fourteen until Carter's return—joined hundreds more from every other barracks who heckled the guards. They sang loud and deliberately off-key, miscounted, and shuffled around to the point where even Hans Schultz, normally the gentlest of souls, was close to losing his temper.

"Colonel Hogan, _puuuleeeeeez!_" the big Sergeant of the Guard sobbed in frustration. "It is too early in the morning for these monkeyshines. Just one time, I would like to have a normal, peaceful roll call. Please, please, Colonel Hogan, will you settle them down for me?"

Noting the souring disposition of the guards, every one of them exhausted from pulling double shifts, Colonel Hogan reckoned the POWs had pushed the camp personnel as far as they dared. Any further high jinks might provoke violence. At the very least it could end with one or more of his men in the Cooler. Though they currently had no mission due to the pending arrival of the mysterious Captain Schätzle, Hogan never knew when London might have something for them that would override the need for caution. He may have little time to spare getting a member of his team released from solitary.

"Okay, fellas, settle down! Form ranks!" Hogan called loud enough for his voice to carry over a majority of the camp. Word-of-mouth carried his orders to those standing too far away to hear. "Let the nice Krauts do their job."

After a final second of mumbles, the men fell into their roll call positions and let the count continue. They held their places, at attention except for the occasional shuffle required to keep warm in the dawn chill. Silence rippling its way across the compound, broken only by the muttered headcounts of each barracks guard.

Kommandant Klink stepped out onto his porch as the first rays of the morning broke over the horizon to glint off tin roofs and barbed wire.

"Schultz, _repoooooooort!_"

"All present and accounted for, _Herr Kommandant_."

"Very well. I will address the prisoners."

Hogan deliberately rolled his eyes—not the 'no one ever escapes from Stalag 13' speech _again_. Maybe he'd exchange it for the 'for you the war is over' speech. It had been awhile since Klink gave that one, so it was overdue. Either way, it was far too early for a rousing oration.

"As of today, there will be a major change here at Stalag 13."

Hogan blinked and focused his attention. _Not_ the 'no escapes' speech? Around him, his men stopped stomping their feet for warmth and concentrated on the Kommandant's announcement. The guards forgot the morning's irritations and sharpened their concentration.

Seeing that he had everyone's complete and undivided attention, Klink puffed up even more, smirked, and paced before the prisoners until he stopped directly in front of the senior POW.

"Due to the unfortunate incident with the truck, a number of our personnel were injured. They will all recover, but in the meantime, the remaining guards have been forced to stand double shifts in order to maintain security around the camp. Well, that ends today. Replacements for the injured guards will be arriving this morning. Among them will be Captain Rupert Schätzle. Captain Schätzle will be assuming command of the camp guard contingent and will be helping me in my duties as Kommandant."

Behind Klink, Schultz jerked and wheeled around. His expression was at once appalled and apprehensive. The Sergeant's mouth opened and closed but only the faintest squeak of sound emerged.

_Poor Schultz_, Hogan thought. _Apparently, our beloved Kommandant hasn't shared that bit of information with his Sergeant of the Guard._

"You will show him the utmost respect," Klink commanded. "Any prisoner who causes Captain Schätzle grief or makes his job harder will receive an automatic 30 days in the Cooler. A second such infraction will mean _90 days_ in solitary on half rations. Colonel Hogan, I am holding you personally responsible for the conduct of your men—any punishment they receive will also fall on your head. Is that understood?"

"Understood, Kommandant."

A voice from the crowd, one with a decidedly French accent, shouted, "We still love you, Schultz!"

For the first time, Klink seemed to take note of his Sergeant's devastated appearance. An expression flashed over the Kommandant's face, a moment of contrition followed by a longer flare of anger, though whether at a particular person or the situation itself, Hogan could not say.

"Sergeant Schultz." A distinct current of regret and no small amount of hesitation carried in Klink's voice. "I want to see you in my office."

"_Yawohl, Herr Kommandant_."

"The rest of you are _dissssss-mised._"

Stoop-shouldered and slow of foot, Schultz trailed after his commanding officer in the direction of the Kommandant's office. The butt of his rifle dragged in the dust.

The assembly broke up, leaving most of the prisoners free to return to their barracks. Hogan stood before Barracks Two, his core command team beside him, staring after the portly non-com.

"Poor Schultzie," LeBeau muttered. "Bad enough to be replaced, shoved aside like so much garbage, but to learn of it in such a way—_phaw_, shame on the Kommandant."

Newkirk struck a match to light his first cigarette of the day and take a long drag off the weed. "You expected civilized behavior from a German officer?"

"I want you guys to spread the word," Hogan said. "Do exactly what Klink ordered us to do. I don't want anyone to provoke or prod the new guards, _especially_ Captain Schätzle, until we know more about them. I want everyone on their best behavior."

"For how long, _mon Colonél_?" LeBeau asked.

"Until further notice."

"Colonel." Sergeant Wilson stepped up to the group from the direction of the infirmary. "Can I speak with you a moment?"

Seeing the dark concern on his medic's face, Hogan asked, "Is it Carter? Has something happened?"

"I'm concerned, Colonel," Wilson reported. "He hasn't said anything, but I don't think he's sleeping well at night. Good rest is vital to his recovery."

Hogan slumped with relief, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather bomber jacket to hide their reactive trembles. His mind had jumped to all manner of worse case scenarios. The horrors of the first few days following Carter's ordeal had yet to fade from his immediate memory.

"The man was tortured by the Gestapo, Sergeant. Nightmares are a given. To be perfectly honest, I'd be more worried if he _wasn't_ having them. I would think getting him back to the barracks where things are more normal—or as normal as they get around here—could only help."

"You might be right, sir," Wilson answered. "Or it could have the opposite effect. Something like this is bound to've left a mark. For someone as ... well ... 'innocent' isn't the right word. Neither is 'naïve.' You know what I mean, sir? How we deal with it—and _him_—I'm just not sure which is the best course, Colonel."

"Truck pullin' into the compound, guv'nor." Newkirk ground his spent cigarette into the dirt with his boot heel. "Captain Schätzle's here."


	4. Chapter 4

TITLE: Rubber Band Man

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, drama, angst, h/c

SERIES: Story 2, Breaking Point Trilogy (sequel to "A Spot of Trouble")

SUMMARY: A new guard transferred into Stalag 13 causes major trouble for the heroes. Sequel to "A Spot of Trouble," but can stand on its own. Begins one month later.

AUTHOR'S THANKS: to ML Miller Breedlove for her magnificent beta-reading and her fantastic wealth of medical knowledge. And to Patti and Marg for putting me on the right path.

Chapter 4

Wilhelm Klink winced at the stolid, military brace assumed by Sergeant Schultz. The stance, while militarily correct in every way, only made the big man look more woebegone, like someone about to face a firing squad. Schultz was not career military. He looked like what he was—a middle-aged, overweight civilian in a Luftwaffe uniform, drafted into this insane war.

As he always did in such cases, Klink sought refuge behind his desk. A pitiful symbol of power it might be for someone with his rank and history, but it was all he had from which to operate.

"Sergeant, let me start out with an apology to you."

"An apology? But _Herr Kommandant_—"

A raised hand silenced the protest.

"Let me finish. This change in personnel has nothing to do with any failure or fault on your part. Captain Schätzle is the son of Field Marshall Herman Schätzle, who has the Fuhrer's personal favor. This placement comes directly from _him_." Klink indicated the photograph of Adolf Hitler mounted on the wall behind his head. Schultz made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan. "It seems the good Captain is suffering from too much time in combat. He needs a nice, quiet posting to help speed his recovery."

"Quiet?" Schultz blinked his surprise. "_Here?_"

"Even with all of Hogan's tomfoolery," Klink said, "'here' is far quieter than the Eastern Front."

Schultz sighed and nodded. "This is true."

"Before General Burkhalter left yesterday, intending to stay overnight in Hammelburg before heading back for Berlin, the General expressed his own reservations about this situation. None of us, the General included, is in any position to object. Our only option is to do as we have been ordered. The instant Captain Schätzle is well enough, he will return to his regular combat unit. Until then, we must do what we can to assist in his recovery."

"May I speak frankly, _Herr Kommandant_?"

Though he would much rather not grant the request, guilt and regret would not allow Klink to cut the big Sergeant off. He gave a brief wave of his hand and said, "You may. Within reason."

Schultz took another step closer to the desk and lowered his voice, as though doing so would make his words any more agreeable.

"Kommandant Klink. You and I both served in the first war. We remember men such as this. They do not 'recover' quite so easily as their friends, family, or commanders might hope. Such men can be dangerous—to themselves and to others. We must be very watchful—and very, very careful—in how we deal with him."

A knock on the door drew their attention and ended the conversation. In truth, neither man objected to the interruption—anything to end the uncomfortable discussion. Considering the source of the placement order, such talk bordered on the edge of treason.

At Klink's call to enter, Corporal Lowenschmidt swung open the door and came just into the room only far enough to report, "The replacement guards have arrived, _Herr Kommandant_."

"Very well, Corporal. I'll be right out. Sergeant, we will finish this discussion another time."

By the time Schultz lumbered his way through the office and out onto the porch, Colonel Klink had managed to don his coat, wrap his neck in a warm scarf, place his hat on his head, grab up his stick and a clipboard, and still nearly trod on the big Sergeant's heels. Early morning light reflected off the truck's windshield to momentarily spotlight Klink in the doorway and dazzle his vision. By the time he blinked away the spots, the transport had come to a stop only a few feet away from the building steps. The driver remained behind the wheel even as seven men stepped from the rear area and assumed an immediate, militarily correct formation.

Klink looked around for Colonel Hogan. He was surprised to not find the cocky American already at his side, making flippant comments and poking his nose into camp business. In fact, a quick look around the yard showed no sign of either Hogan or any of his men.

While work still continued on the tower and guard shack, the 'no man's land' between the fence and the buildings had been re-established, an armed guard stood duty in the incomplete tower, and the gaping hole in the perimeter fence was repaired. The replacement spotlight would be reinstalled before sunset that very day. The order confining all prisoners to their barracks had been lifted with the previous night's roll call. After two days of confinement to their cramped and dreary barracks, the prisoners should be gathered outdoors, welcoming the fresh air and sunshine, yet Klink stared out over a barren yard. How unusual.

It was a puzzle to solve some other time. Closer, more immediate matters required his attention.

Colonel Klink looked over the seven men, noting which ones followed regulations and which ones did not. To his old Prussian school way of thinking, the precision with which a man wore his uniform, down to the shine on the buttons, was a sign of dedication to one's chosen profession as a soldier in the German army. Any man who took no pride in his military's dress had no pride in the military itself.

The man in the end of the first row was a prime example of German superiority. Klink would have known him for a military man even without the perfectly tailored and ornamented uniform. His carriage, his expression, his very skin gleamed with military fervor. A young man, surely no older than 23 or 24 years old, his pale blond hair, blue eyes, and robust build proved his true Arian heritage. He wore his cap true to regulations, without the rakish tilt so often employed by dashing young men who used a uniform to entice a fair fraulein's interest. Even the brown leather document case tucked under his right arm had been buffed to a mirror shine.

Captain Rupert Schätzle was his father's son.

Klink handed the clipboard over to Schultz. "Call the roll."

Schultz looked down at the single sheet of paper. Digging a blunt stub of a pencil from his belt pouch, he dabbed the lead end to his tongue to moisten the implement then ticked off each name as the soldiers answered roll call.

"All of the new guards are present, _Herr Kommandant_."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

Klink wasted no flowery welcome speeches to the three privates and three corporals who accompanied Captain Schätzle. He paced in front of the new men, four in the front row, three behind, and stared each one in the eye. They were all so young, hardly old enough to shave let alone carry a rifle into war, and all on the short, slender side—which probably explained why they were sent to Stalag 13 rather than to an active combat unit. Except for Captain Schätzle, the oldest looked no older than eighteen.

"I am Colonel Wilhelm Klink, Kommandant of this camp. You are now at Stalag Thirteen. This is something in which you can take great pride. In case you haven't heard this before, there has never been a successful escape from this camp. It will be your duty to maintain that glorious distinction." Klink waggled the exposed end of his swagger stick, the remainder still tucked beneath his arm. "I must warn you. Do not be deceived. The fact that there has never been a successful escape does not mean these prisoners are cowed or toothless. They are dangerous, desperate men and should be treated as such at all times. Sergeant Hans Schultz will see you to your quarters and acquaint you with the guard schedule. Schultz, after you have settled them in the guard quarters, bring Colonel Hogan to me. Captain Schätzle, if you would join me in my office for a moment, we will go over your duties in more detail. The rest of you are dismissed."

The camp Kommandant returned the young soldiers' salutes and led the way into the building. As he stepped onto the covered porch, Klink marveled at himself. Under any other circumstances, he would have offered flowery pleasantries and thinly veiled compliments, even allowed the Captain to precede him despite the differences in their rank. He would have ordered Hogan's Frenchman to prepare an impressive feast for that evening and arranged entertainment, anything to bring himself to the young Captain's attention. Through the son, he would catch the attention of his father, Field Marshall Schätzle. Such a connection to someone in the Fuhrer's personal favor could only help to advance Klink's otherwise stagnant career.

Why wasn't he at all interested in doing so this time?

Safe within the confines of his office, Klink settled into his own chair. Hoping to still the unease he felt staring up at the muscular Captain's greater height, the Kommandant waved the younger officer to sit across the desk from him.

"Have a seat, Captain."

Captain Schätzle remained at attention, his gaze locked on a vague spot somewhere on the wall over Klink's left shoulder. "With your permission, sir, I would prefer to stand."

"Very well." Klink indicated the case tucked under the officer's arm. "You have something for me?"

Captain Schätzle unbuckled the leather case and withdrew a stack of folders. He handed them across to Klink, placed the empty leather case in the chair, and returned to full attention, complete with a sharp click of his heels. The exchange, so fluid and precise, appeared to be one unbroken movement from start to finish.

"Personnel records for the new transfers, Colonel."

"Thank you. I will study them once we've finished here." Klink gave only a cursory flip through their contents before he set the files down on the right side of his desk. He steepled his fingers before him and studied his newest subordinate. "Tell me, Captain Schätzle. How is your command of English?"

"Excellent, sir. I spent four years in England during the time my father was stationed with the German delegation in London."

"Ahhh. Good. I have asked Sergeant Schultz to bring Colonel Hogan in to meet you. He is the senior POW officer here in camp. Your duties will bring you in frequent contact with him. A common language would be most helpful."

Klink lifted a full folder from the left side of his desk and handed it to the other man. The Captain unbent enough to accept the folder and slip it into the document case.

"Everything to get you started is in that folder," Klink said. "There is a copy of this week's guard rotation and delivery schedules, as well as a list of the camp's security and facilities. I believe you will also find a list of civilians who have access to the camp. Oskar Schnitzer, the veterinarian who trains and rotates the guard dogs, and Dr. Freiling are the most frequent visitors. You will also find details of the surrounding terrain and the nearest town, Hammelburg. If you require anything further, you have but to ask either myself, Sergeant Schultz, or my assistant, Helga."

"Information on key prisoners would be helpful, sir. Who are our informants inside their ranks?"

"We have none."

Schätzle frowned for a brief instant before he deliberately wiped his face clean of any expression. "None, sir?"

"An American officer, a Colonel in the Army Air Corps by the name of Robert Hogan, is the senior officer among the prisoners. He does an exemplary job of maintaining discipline within their ranks, despite the fact that we house prisoners from six different countries. The few times anyone has foolishly attempted an escape, Hogan has appraised me of it immediately."

"So this Colonel Hogan is our informant."

"Well, I suppose it could be viewed in that light, yes."

Schätzle stared at Klink, eyes aglow with admiration. "Excellent strategy, Colonel. Compromise the senior officer even as you break the prisoners' spirit from the top down. Create suspicion in their ranks even as you maintain a tight leash on the one man with authority. Brilliant."

An uncomfortable blush burned the Kommandant's cheeks and warmed his neck. "Errrr. Yes. Thank you."

If anything, Schätzle's stance became even stiffer. To Klink's eye, that should not have been possible.

"I will do all that I can for you, _Herr Kommandant_. I am your man, heart and soul."

"Yes. Well." Klink tried to smile away the young man's too-obvious fervor. A queasy feeling settled into the pit of his stomach along with a distinct sense of dread. Try as he might, Klink could see no positive ending to this situation. "I thank you for that, Captain Schätzle, but it really isn't necessary. Just do your job and we will get along just fine."

"As you order, sir."

A single knuckle rapped against the door an instant before the portal opened. Colonel Hogan all but skipped through the doorway, all smiles and charm.

"Schultz said you wanted to see me, Kommandant?" Hogan chirped, entirely too cheerful for so early in the morning. "Is it something that can wait? We're right in the middle of a game of checkers. I was winning, too."

Before Hogan could complete the step into the room, Captain Schätzle wheeled toward him. A gloved fist delivered a backhand strike to the American's face. With a grunt of surprise and pain, Hogan stumbled back only to find further retreat blocked by a stunned, frozen Sergeant Schultz. A vicious red whelt rose over his right cheek below his eye.

"Captain Schätzle!" Klink's shout halted a second blow before it could land. "What are you doing?"

Schätzle froze in place. His arm, raised for a second strike, trembled as though determined to break free of his control. The muscles of his arms, shoulders, and back strained against the confines of his uniform.

"You are Kommandant here, sir." Captain Schätzle spoke in a general, matter-of-fact tone quite at odds with the restrained fury of his actions. "No one can speak disrespectfully to you, sir."

"Hogan meant no disrespect." Klink turned to Hogan. "Did you, Colonel?"

Hogan stared a long time at the Captain before he finally answered, "No, sir. None whatsoever."

"There, you see?" Klink held his breath until Schätzle lowered his arm. Klink added a sugary, cajoling tone to his voice, a tone similar to what might be used to calm a skittish horse. He hoped it might soften the rebuke in his words. "For the record, Captain. We do not strike prisoners here without a very good reason. Hogan can be rather relaxed at times and his comments may seem disrespectful, but as I mentioned earlier, his cooperation is essential to the smooth operation of this camp. We tread a fine line between the power of the victor and the submission of the defeated. Any abuse of that power could create trouble at some later time. We must avoid any disruption that might tip the scales away from that fine balance."

"Understood, sir."

Hogan remained watchful, his body tensed as though anticipating an attack as Captain Schätzle tugged his uniform back into alignment. He remained braced even when Schätzle took a single step back and resumed a more attentive stance.

"Colonel Hogan?" Klink said. "Do you need the doctor look at your cheek? That knot promises to turn into a nasty bruise."

"Thank you, Kommandant. I'm fine."

"Perhaps," Klink suggested to both Schätzle and Hogan, "if you took some time to get to know one another, you might find yourselves able to work together. For the good of the camp." 

"An excellent idea, _Herr Kommandant_," Schätzle said. "We will get to know one another, Colonel Hogan." Captain Schätzle's smile held nothing friendly. "Before long, we will get to know one another very well indeed."


End file.
